breathe and reboot...

When I was in my second year of University, I worked with a guy named Tim at our local video store. One morning, Tim called in sick, saying that he had the flu and later that day, near the end of my shift, Tim’s Mom called saying that he had been hospitalized and that the doctor’s weren’t expecting him to live through the night. Needless to say, it was very shocking for all of us that knew him.

It turned out that Tim had drank a glass of water that had been sitting out and a form of bacteria that would have normally just given the rest of us an upset stomach, ended up attacking Tim’s heart and he developed an infection. At some point in time throughout the night, Tim was being transported by ambulance from the hospital to the heart institute for further treatment. Tim died on the way there. And then he was revived. He had actually flat lined and was considered clinically dead for close to three minutes before his heart was brought back to life and later treated. Tim’s life is the miracle that so many of us hope for.

When Tim returned to work about a month later, he seemed to be a completely different person. Tim was a writer and poet and had always possessed a very philosophical view of life. He was intense; passionate; joy filled and lived life with great intent. While he certainly had moments of happiness, Tim seemed very sad in the months following his illness. One night, a bunch of us went out for drinks after work and I asked Tim how he was feeling now that his life was starting to go back to normal. He said that he was sad and that he had been sad ever since. He said that everyone in his “life after death” support group had discovered this new found appreciation for the beauty and simplicity of life, and he found himself suffering from a depression that he didn’t quite know how to get himself out of. The world was just a sad place to him now. All I could really do for Tim was listen because in no way could I sympathize with what he was going through but, if I could see Tim now, I would look him in the eye and say “Tim…I understand”.

In no way has the outcome of our recent ordeal in any way compared to what he went through but in the three days since my test results came back…I’ve been sad. While I’ve been beyond grateful for the best possible outcome, I’ve also felt a despair that I haven’t quite been able to shake. I’ve felt sad at the realization of just how fleeting life is and at just how little we truly appreciate the subtle moments that pass us by. It makes my heart hurt to know how much time we spend suffering and struggling at the hands of our ego, our pride, our jealousy.

Death is scary. For most of us, its anticipation makes us shutter and despite our best efforts, it will catch up with all of us eventually. Some sooner than others but either way, we all know in the deepest recesses of our mind, that we are no exception. This is hard…at least for me. Just before Steve and I left to go to the hospital on the night we discovered the lump, I was curled up on the floor of our hallway telling Steve that I wasn’t ready yet; I didn’t want to go to the hospital because I wasn’t ready for our life to change this way yet; I wasn’t ready to go through something like this yet and I wasn’t ready to die yet. As long as I stayed on the floor, this wasn’t happening yet. And that’s what the prospect of death does to a lot of us; it paralyzes us in hopes that if we stay very, very still…so will time.

We all know that it doesn’t work this way though…and yet we still go about life as though it does.

I read once in a book that people who live with autism have a very different awareness of time and its passing. Somehow, they are almost always acutely aware that this moment, this minute, this day is eternally over and that you can never get it back. In turn, they are left with a melancholy from one passing moment after another. It’s left me wondering if perhaps getting bogged down in office politics or worrying about money is a human necessity sometimes…a defense mechanism to keep our world and our perspective small enough that it doesn’t scare us so much? Because the hugeness of our potential and our universe and our mortality can be a really scary place when you let yourself consider it for too long.

Perhaps Tim was pushed too far. Perhaps I was pushed too far. While Tim physically experienced death, I spent ten days mentally lingering in its presence. Perhaps we were both taken to places that we were not yet prepared to venture to and it’s left us with a sadness over how quickly the beauty of our world can slip between our fingers and turn to a grief that none of us are quite prepared for. Some people come out of such experiences living their entire life differently and as odd as this sounds; I don’t want to. I don’t want to because I don’t want to be reminded that I was once crying on the floor pleading with God to spare us this terror. I don’t want to be reminded that a moment changed everything. I don’t want to be reminded that my husband once had to worry about losing his wife…and that I had to see it in his eyes. I don’t want to be reminded that our universe can turn its dials that quickly. I don’t want to be reminded that this whole thing could have turned out very differently.

I’m sure that with a bit of time, I will be restored to my usual, if not better, self. But right now I need to acknowledge the fact that I’ve been shaken too hard and it’s changed something about the way I see the world. A good friend of mine and I were discussing yesterday how living life fully and happily is really a very fine line; it’s a delicate balance between appreciating the fragility of life without waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’ve experienced the other end of the spectrum more than I would have liked as of late and it may take me a little while to find my way back but it’s kind of like what Anna Nalick sings I guess, “You can’t jump the track, we’re like cars on a cable and life’s like an hour glass glued to the table…

…so just breathe.”